


Slowly Slipping Away

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching the distance grow is the worst part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly Slipping Away

**Author's Note:**

> Er. JoLa happens, and sometimes, rather unexpectedly. This wasn't inspired by anything except my pondering on how Lance has changed over the years. Also, the title comes from a Harem Scarem song, but really isn't inspired by it. For TNL.

He's pulling away from me. I'm watching him go, and I can't stop it.

* * *

Lance and I have been close for a long time -- since the beginning, pretty much. I never thought too hard about the way we seemed to connect. It felt natural to seek out his company, to relax in his presence. Sure, I'd had best friends before, but this -- this comfortable closeness that we shared -- seemed to surpass that, even transcended the tight bonds we all formed, the five of us.

He was nervous and shy at first, often trying to pull away from the rest of us, feeling that we'd made our friendships and he wouldn't fit in. I wanted him to fit, though; at the time, I admit, I didn't realize it was because I wanted him. We quickly hit an easy level of teasing, both physical and verbal: I'm touchy-feely, as has often been noted, and he's ticklish, so that was a match made in heaven. And when, less than a fortnight after Lance's induction into the group, JC witnessed me idly telling Lance to 'fuck off, bitch' (to which he responded with a middle finger flicked in my direction), JC just laughed at us.

So I guess we were pretty obvious even then.

Nights out clubbing, days in rehearsal, hours upon hours in studios and hotel bedrooms and stuffy little buses or cars: still, none of it prepared me for the moment he kissed me. I'd suspected he was gay, but I'd never said anything to him, wanting him to come to his own conclusions first. Then JC dragged us out to some horrible club in Bonn, where Lance pushed me against a wall and kissed me until I couldn't breathe. He was seventeen. I'd thought of myself as the king of cool, but he disarmed me with that, and I wondered how I'd missed the memo that I wanted him.

We made love for the first time a few months after that. I was still living at my parents' house, and he was rooming with Justin (and, by extension, Chris and JC), so we got a hotel room somewhere, both of us nervous, my hand shaking when I signed the receipt for the room. I'd had sex, sure, but not with a guy -- Lance was my first -- and as it turned out, I was his, too. It was fumbling and awkward, and a little painful, but his eyes shone when I lay over him, pressed deep inside him, and I knew there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

The guys weren't always supportive. JC thought it was the mother of all bad ideas; he was worried about the group, how it might impact our public image -- and, I think, in denial of some of his own proclivities. Chris thought we were cute, though, so he defended us, while Justin took an "Ew! Boys kissing! Ew!" approach to it, and forbade us to do more than hug in his presence. Naturally, we ignored him, and before long, he relaxed enough to ask me what it was like, gay sex.

So then we were together. Lance and me. Me and Lance. I loved it. I loved him. It wasn't always easy to conceal my feelings in public -- especially during interviews, when journalists and reporters asked the inevitable questions about romance, wanting to know who was dating whom now. But we learned to mask our faces, to joke about it, and it got better.

Success changed us, and even though I'd known it would happen -- had seen it coming, even, the way Justin grew and transformed, the way Chris's sense of humor became even sharper and more bitter as he collected more things to hide behind it, the way JC's drive to be the best in all things left him, sometimes, shaking and dazed. I knew I had changed, too: grown into my assigned role, enjoyed the clubbing and partying and the way it was easy to take whatever was offered.

Lance shut down. That was his defense. He was never closed to me, though; no matter how bad his day had been, I could always tuck him in my arms, hold him, rub his back and tell him it was all right, and inevitably he'd smile -- raising occasionally teary eyes to me -- and murmur an agreement, or a "You're too good to me, Joe". And his lovemaking would be as uninhibited, after; but I learned not to approach him until he was ready.

Then he stopped being ready.

* * *

"Lance...?"

"Not now, baby. Give me fifteen minutes."

* * *

It's not like we don't spend time together. We do: not just in group stuff, but on our own, going out to dinner and clubs, movies, spending time in each others' presence. And while he continues to rib me, like always, when I see a pretty girl -- and I tease back, mocking his slow drawl to get him red-faced -- something's changed about the dynamic. I can't put my finger on it. It's just different.

The sex is as good as ever; better, maybe, now that we know each other inside and out. His fingers know just where to press to make me scream, and I'm familiar with every sensitive spot on his body (and there are a lot, trust me). But every now and then, when he gives me a perfunctory kiss afterwards and rolls over, I feel like he's simply attending to duty, somehow, that this is just another task for him to get through. Make Joey come, kiss him, tell him you love him, go to sleep.

It makes me feel so fucking cold inside, and I feel bad, too, because when I ask him if he still loves me, he gives me one of those startled, worried looks and says, "No, baby, I love you," with a genuine fear in his eyes. But it bothers me: lately, that I have to resort to such measures to see any feeling in his face.

* * *

"Lance?"

"Mmm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, Joe. Why?"

"Nothin'."

* * *

The thing that really sucks is that I don't know what to do to fix it. That's what keeps me up at night; that's what I'm staring at, sometimes, when I'm looking at him but not at him until he finally snaps at me to quit fucking looking at him, he's trying to get something done.

I wonder if it was something I did, early on, some flippant remark I made that forced him inward. JC keeps telling me that I shouldn't get so upset -- that I shouldn't try to blame it on myself. Lance has gone through a lot, he points out, between the heart murmur, the lawsuit, the stress of telling his parents he was gay and in love with me. And it's true, we haven't had time off in months; even when we were supposed to be on break, he and I were shooting the movie, and then there was the record to make, and promotion for both, so that when we went back on tour it almost felt like _that_ was the vacation right there.

Justin tells me not to let it get to me. "He still loves you, right?" And when I nod, he slaps me on the back and dismisses the conversation like that's all there is to it. Justin should know -- he and Britney are barely together, ever, so they don't have this kind of thing to deal with yet. Maybe down the road, if they stay together.

Chris just looks at me sympathetically, and buys me beers. Sometimes I think that's best.

* * *

It's late in the tour, and I'm alone in our room. Lance is off at some party, networking, and he invited me, but I don't have the energy to go and watch him be Mr. Hollywood. He gave me a curious look when I turned him down; asked me if I was all right, sounded concerned that I didn't want to spend time with him. I assured him I was tired and just wanted to be lazy in my hotel room, watch movies or something.

I'm surprised when Chris comes in with a twelve-pack of beer -- "It's crap," he says, "but I thought you might want to get buzzed." The beer's cold, so I figure what the hell and indicate the empty space on the other side of the bed. We flip through channels and finally settle on some racing thing on ESPN.

Chris is right -- the beer tastes like piss -- but I don't really care, and soon I'm pleasantly happy, drifting in the sharp-fuzzy haze that always takes me when I'm getting wasted. Everything seems both near and far at the same time, somehow: in my face, but at a remove. It's not until the door cracks open that I realize Chris, further gone than me, has draped himself on my stomach and is talking at me -- I'm not really following the conversation, but it seems to have something to do with us sponsoring a car, the Fatone-Kirkpatrick Racecar of Love or something.

It's Lance that startles me out of my haze: he's standing in the entranceway, one eyebrow coolly raised. "This is why you didn't want to go to the party," he states.

Chris pushes up to his knees, giving Lance a belligerent glare. "You," he states, pointing a weaving finger at Lance, "missed the party. Fatone and I have been having a fine time, haven't we, Joey?"

"Shut up, Chris," I hiss, getting to my feet. I'm flushed, feeling embarrassed -- and I know perfectly well I shouldn't be, because all of us are physically friendly, we always have been, and Chris sprawled on my stomach is nothing compared to the time he threw himself in Lance's lap and covered his face in kisses, and I wasn't jealous then because I knew he was joking, but Lance's eyes flash fire and my stomach drops to my feet.

It's because I hadn't wanted to go, I know at once. He thinks I wanted to stay in with Chris.

"We're not-- we weren't--" My tongue trips on itself. Lance shakes his head, even as he's moving toward his suitcase for his travel case.

"I'll be in J's room," he says, and I don't have the heart to tell him to stop.

"Lance!" Chris yelps, but the door's already closing behind him. He swings to me, his eyes narrowed. "What the fuck was that?"

* * *

"Is this what you wanted?" Lance asks me the next day, but I don't get another word in; we're being escorted down a radio station hallway, and he edges past me and moves up to walk next to JC, and I can't talk to him again between the excited secretary trying to get autographs and the sarcastic off-shift DJs who watch us now with smiling faces, but will be sniping at us once we're around the corner.

I try to talk to him again in the limo that's taking us to the stadium, but he ignores me. It's the silent treatment, and I hate it, I hate him for jumping to conclusions and making his own decision to, apparently, consider us over.

I see JC talking to him in a low voice later, but I can tell Lance is giving him the standard response: I can practically see him mouthing the words, "No, I'm fine, really. I'm cool, don't worry." When I approach them, Lance gets up abruptly and says something about getting a fitting for something, and glides out of the room.

JC looks up at me, sympathy in his eyes. "Sorry," he says. "I tried--"

"I know." It's starting to bother me, now, not just for me, but for the fact that this is disrupting the group. JC's upset, and Chris has been grumpy all day; only Justin's still sunny, but I know that won't last too much longer, because when one of us is in a mood, it generally affects all of us.

I'm apprehensive after the show, because we're on the bus right away, with a long night's drive ahead of us. Here it's just him and me -- and Steve, who's rolled up in his bunk, dead to the world. Lance claims the shower first, so I sit in the back lounge, playing arcade-simulator games on my laptop, until he's done. He doesn't say anything: it's just the click of keys from the kitchenette alerting me that he's finished.

I take my shower, somewhat unenthusiastically, though it's nice to be clean again. I think about jerking off, since it's been a few days since we've made love and the mere thought of his mouth is enough to get me half-hard; but somehow I don't even have the energy for that. I cut the water instead and dry off, get dressed.

He hasn't moved from the tiny table when I come into the kitchenette, squeezing past him to get a water from the fridge; he doesn't acknowledge me in any way, and that hurts. The idea that our friendship might be gone, as well as our relationship: that squeezes my heart so tightly that for a moment I can't breathe, and the corners of my eyes sting.

"Lance."

He doesn't look up when I sit down across from him. He does jerk his hand away when I reach for it, and then he glares at me for a moment before looking back to the screen.

"Okay, fine." I fold my arms on the table, staring at the dark, springy hair over the tanned skin of my forearms. "You won't talk to me, maybe you'll listen. I miss you."

There's a pause, and then he resumes his typing again.

"I don't know what happened," I say, softly. "I know it's been a while since I've looked in your eyes and really seen you. It's been a long time since we talked about nothing, about stupid shit, and laughed and lounged in bed naked and made each other late for meetings. But -- it's not really about that."

"Then what is it about," he says grudgingly. My heart soars.

"I don't know where you went, but I want you back. There's... there's the you I see, but it's a mask, and I haven't seen behind it for so long. I don't think any of us have. You don't have to hide from me. From us."

He's quiet, totally still now, his hands flat on the keyboard. Then he shakes his head. "You're imagining things."

"Well, the Lance I fell in love with wouldn't have assumed I was fucking Chris," I reply, a bit stung. "Just because I'm not into networking the way you are, just because I'm so damn tired of this tour and everything and I want to relax in bed with you instead of go to another damn label function or industry party or something. And so I'm having a few beers with Chris instead of making love with you like I should be, and..." I run out of words there, and I have to stop, because my voice is getting thick.

There's still no response. It's like I'm talking to a wall, or a ghost. "You're slipping through my fingers," I whisper. "The more I try to hold on to you, the faster you go. I feel like I'm just another thing that you have to deal with, and -- I'm your friend, Lance, I'm your lover, I don't want to feel that way. I love you."

His voice is a bare whisper: "I love you too." I can't see his eyes; he's lowered his lids, and the pale weird light of the computer screen makes strange hollows in his cheeks. He's as beautiful as he ever was, but there's a meanness to him now. Maybe that's it, I think: maybe he's just changed too much.

"I have to," he begins, and stops. "I don't. There's a lot of stuff I have to do."

"And I'm just part of it, I know." I should have known it would go this way, I tell myself as I get to my feet. It was good while it lasted, anyway.

His hand shoots out, grasping my wrist. When he looks up at me, there's fright in his eyes: pure, unadulterated terror. "You're not, Joe. You're everything."

"Tell me what to do," I say, with my arms around him and his high, faint breathing in my ear.

"Tell me you love me. Tell me you mean it. Say you're not leaving."

"I'm not. I swear. I love you."

He shakes under my hands. It's a tension he's been holding in for months now. When I rub his back and tell him it's okay, I feel tears dampen my shoulder: the first tears I've seen him cry in over a year.

* * *

"Joey?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."


End file.
